Passion in the Snow

I'm a creature of programming, and when the Olympics come around I have to watch. Even the Winter ones.

I'm one of those who enjoy the Olympics but hate the emphasis on USA. I know it's good for ratings, but I try to enjoy the pure spectacle of sport, which is harder every year. The network coverage (this year it's NBC) knows that more people will tune for hockey and ice dancing, that the desirable demographic is all over snowboarding and freeform skiing, and that American audiences want to see Americans do well.

I, of course, am different.

I've been on skis once in my life, but there's no coverage of snowplowing. I've never been on ice skates but read Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates when I was young, so there's a little connection there. About the closest I've come to any Winter Olympic sport is having shot a .22 rifle at some cans in the desert, so I'll be all over the biathalon. Them's my homies.

Since I can't, really, relate to the sports and wince whenever the US celebrates some senseless victory over countries who compete without the obvious advantage of multi-national corporate sponsors and arrogance, the countries I root for are mostly those associated with women I've known.

To that end you can expect me to be watching Croatia, Italy, the Dutch, and France to do well, as well as every country that sent fewer than five people.

The emotional coverage had me blowing my nose for the first fifteen minutes, until they switched to some lame reports on the USA training program and interviews with our hopefuls. I guess no one in the rest of the world is interesting to the Americans, and that makes me sad. It doesn't take much to make me get all stuffy, just pictures of Italy and the sounds of the language, the tears and smiles of the contestants, and the proud looks as they march into the stadium.

My ex taught me to see how well the countries dressed, and I hope if she saw it she was pleased with the silver Italian suits. I know! I expected blue, too! I was glad to see the Mongolian athletes wearing their fur caps, and if any PETA idiots complain, shame on them. My guess is the people in Mongolia, somehow, have managed to figure out over the past thousand years living in the mountains how to keep warm.

Interesting fact: I don't think they're participating, but the people from Ivory Coast are called "Ivorians."

I'll be watching for the Italian blue, the Dutch orange, and the Croat red and white checkerboard, and you can count on me muting the TV whenever the USA! USA! chant fills the stadia. I loved how the Italians used opera, how the hockey rinks aren't bill boards, and how delightful Italian sounds when spoken by a native.

A last note: I really wish Bob Costas and the rest of the American announcing crews would listen. "Giorgio" is two syllables, not three or four. There's no "ee" sound anywhere in the name, and it's simply jor-joe.